


Fake Plastic Trees

by HapticLacuna



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Body Dysphoria, Deana Winchester, F/M, Mentioned use of hormone injections, Older Cas, Other, Trans Character, Transgender, cas may be human but he's still an angel, girl!Dean, human!Cas, mtf, mtf!deana, non-hunting winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:43:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HapticLacuna/pseuds/HapticLacuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deana has to tell Cas.</p><p>Deana is 17 and in high school, Cas is 19 and in University.  Sammy is 14 and can't grasp the fact that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fake Plastic Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: Deana experiences body dysphoria and has issues accepting her body. Also discussion of sexual abuse.
> 
> *I am a cis-gendered woman who wants to learn more about trans issues but as of now all my information comes from the internet. Which is not exactly a reliable source. I took care not to be offensive, but if I wrote something that was incorrect and/or offensive please tell me, and know that it was not my intent to hurt.*
> 
> Title is Jared Padalecki's favorite song, by Radiohead.

“Sam’s really just fine at Biology,” Cas grins over at her, in a way he thinks is reassuring. “It’s just that Mr. Fox is a horrible teacher.”

“Mmm,” Deana hums back, nodding absentmindedly, before scooping another bit of apple pie into her mouth. It’s delicious; the apples are warm and freshly stewed, a perfect contrast to the flakiness of the crust.

“Deana?”

“Sorry, what?” she looks up at Cas, who is no longer grinning. In fact, he looks very upset. She tries to smile, but can’t; the constant rolling of her stomach and the tightness in her chest amounts to only a pathetic grimace.

“Is there something wrong?” Cas asks, big eyes and concerned pout contributing to his pathetic puppy-face. He and Sam must practice that face together instead of learning that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. “Would you rather I not talk about Sam?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she lies blatantly. It sounds fake, even to her ears, and Cas just seems more concerned by her lying. “Really Cas, it’s okay,” she assures, putting her fork down. “I’m just not hungry anymore.”

It’s not like it’s a plausible excuse - Deana never turns down pie - but Cas hasn’t known her long enough to know that, and he nods. “How about we get out of here, then,” he offers, sliding out of the booth and offering his hand to her. Great. This isn’t exactly what she wanted either, but she’s sees no way out of her mistake. Grabbing her purse and her coat, she takes Cas’ hand and stands up.

In an alternative life, Deana would have been a feminist. Hell, she still kind of is - if anyone thinks less of her for being a girl, she’ll kick their ass. But in this universe, she loves how traditional Cas is. How he opens doors for her, pays the bill (though that will get annoying), and how he is currently helping her into her coat, because it’s late November and it’s fucking cold outside.

As they walk out of the restaurant, Cas slides an arm around her waist, his hand curling into her side. She leans in closer to him automatically, and they fall into step together. It’s a gorgeous night, frost making the trees that line the street sparkle, and the clear sky showing the constellations. She would have appreciated it if it wasn't for the fact that this was their third date.

Which meant it was the deadline for sex.

Okay, maybe she was being dramatic. But it was the deadline for something bigger than the downright modest goodnight kisses Cas and she had shared on her front porch. Smart of him, too - Deana has seen Bobby’s extensive gun collection.

So there wasn't anything wrong, not really. There wasn't anything wrong with Cas, or the night, or the food. There was just something fundamentally wrong with her. Because her body wasn't really hers. And after tonight, Cas wouldn't be hers either.

She’s so caught up in thinking she doesn't even notice when they stop in front of Cas’ dormitory, not until Cas clears his throat. It’s awkward, and she lets out a nervous laugh as Cas gestures to the giant brick building

“Do you want to come in?” he asks, looking down at her with his adorable squinty eyes. “My roommate, Gabe, said he’d be gone for the night. Actually, his exact words were, ‘I’m going to be out from dusk till dawn, chasing that pussy’, but I didn't think you really needed to hear how vulgar he can be.”

She snorts in spite of her nervousness, looking away from Cas’ small, self-deprecating grin and towards the building.

“Deana, I hope you understand that we don’t have to do anything,” Cas murmurs, running a hand down her back. She supposes it’s meant to be soothing, but it doesn't really work. At all. “I understand that you might be nervous, but we can watch TV. Or we can just talk.” He smiles sweetly down at her. “I’m just not ready for this date to be over yet.”

But Deana is nothing if not overly defensive, so she steamrolls through all that gentlemanly-crap. “I’m not nervous!” she insists, indignant, and takes his hand. “I’d love to come up,” she proclaims, winking. It’s all false bravado, and Cas obviously does not believe her total change of heart, but he grins back at her anyways.

They walk up three sets of stairs, as the elevator has been broken for months, and Cas lets them into his dorm room. Half of it obviously belongs to Cas. The sheets on his bed are dark blue and folded nearly immaculately. The walls are bare, except for a few Doctor Who and Sherlock posters, and inexplicably, a cat calendar. It’s neat, the only thing out of place being a couple of sheets with Cas’ terrible handwriting spread out on his desk.

The other side of the room is horrifying, to say the least. Cas, being Cas, rushes over to tug down a terrifying ‘squirting’ poster which leaves nothing to the imagination. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, throwing it face down on his roommate’s bed. “Gabe’s just…”

“It’s okay,” Deana assures, feeling some of the tension bleed from her shoulders. She throws her coat and purse on the desk before walking over to Cas and wrapping her arms around his neck. “I think it’s kind of funny.”

“It’s not funny,” Cas grumbles, but he’s smiling. “Now I’ve made a horrible impression on this great girl.” His hands sneak around her hips, fingertips squeezing her, bringing her closer. “This amazing, funny, smart, gorgeous girl…”

She loses herself in the kiss. Cas’ lips are delicious; soft, smooth and he's an extremely talented kisser. She moves her hands from the back of his neck upwards, running her fingers through his permanent sex hair. Cas groans as she opens her mouth and presses her torso closer to his.

He falls, and she falls with him, and then they’re tangled together on Cas’ bed. He’s got his tongue in her mouth, and she’s probably moaning too much but she doesn't care, not when this feels so good, not when Cas feels so incredibly good against her, not when Deana feels so soft and desirable under his body. He’s running his hands over her, petting her sides, colliding with bare skin where her t-shirt has ridden up, higher, up her spine and fiddling with her bra, unhooking it, the band falling loose…

“Deana,” Cas says softly, as if talking to a wild animal. His hands fall away from her back and one migrates to her cheek, thumb brushing under her eye. “Deana, you’re crying.”

Is she? She blinks rapidly, her hand moving to cover her chest, hiding the evidence. “I’m sorry.”

Cas scoffs at her. “Don’t be sorry, Deana,” he murmurs, the concern in his voice killing her. She ducks her head and buries her nose into Cas’ neck, his warm, cinnamon-like scent enveloping her. “Just…” Cas’ hand settles tentatively on her back. It would be comforting expect for the fact that her bra is still unhooked, and that means that everything could fall apart at any moment. “Deana…Why were you crying?” he asks, sounding genuinely puzzled.

Of course he’s puzzled. It’s not like he would ever guess what she is. What she isn't’t.

“I haven’t been truthful with you,” she admits coarsely, her voice muffled by where she’s snuffling into Cas’ neck.

There’s a moment of silence, and when Deana doesn't offer any more information, it drags on. Cas starts to softly stroke her back.

“Okay,” he finally says. He seems too calm for it to be natural, sounding restrained. “Okay. How about I just talk, and then you tell me if I’m correct or not?”

He’s not going to be right. Deana doesn't want him to be right. She has no idea what he’s thinking of, but she nods into his neck anyways.

“Alright, so I wasn't going to say anything,” Cas starts, taking a deep breath. “I considered it, but then I realized that it was your - and Sam’s, I suppose - business. If you wanted to tell me, you would. Perhaps I was wrong. If this is going to affect us…Deana, I do not want you crying if I try to touch you. That’s unhealthy. I mean, I don’t want you crying at all. You need to talk about this with someone, anyone. And if you need my help, I am of course-”

“Cas,” she interrupts quietly, and he stops talking immediately. She un-tucks herself from around Cas and looks up to stare him in the eyes. “Cas, what exactly do you think happened to me?”

Cas looks back at her with big blue eyes full of sadness. “Sam and you don’t live with your father. You live with your uncle, who is extremely protective of you and extremely wary of me.” The dark-haired boy chews on his bottom lip. “Deana, I think your father sexually abused you, but I also thought that you were coping with it. I seriously think that you should seek counseling. And not because I want to have sex with you,” Cas adds quickly. “Because I want you to be happy.”

Deana can’t help it. She snorts. It’s not her best move, and Cas looks as if he agrees with her. “This isn't’t funny, Deana,” he says, frowning at her.

“I know,” she agrees quickly, placing a hand on his shoulder. One is still held against her chest, keeping her bra where it’s supposed to be. “I know. Cas, my father might have been bat shit crazy, but he never abused me, sexually or otherwise. Sammy and I are living with Bobby because my dad managed to get himself thrown in the loony bin.”

“Oh,” Cas says, frowning. “I was mistaken, then. I’m sorry, perhaps that was too presumptuous of me.”

Deana can’t help but smile. She doesn't understand why - in anyone else it would be annoying, but Cas’ Victorian way of speaking is incredibly endearing to her. “It’s okay, Cas,” she assures, turning to lie on her back, looking up at the white ceiling, her arm still covering her chest.

Cas’ hand settles in her hair, running over the wavy shoulder-length locks. The silence is back, but it’s less awkward now. It’s the kind of silence Deana can have with Sammy, with Bobby - the kind of silence that should takes years to build and cement. She already has it with Cas.

“Deana, please tell me.”

She remembers when she first did this. When she first explained to Sam what she was and who she was. Her little brother, all of 11 at the time, just sat and thought for a second. And then gave her a hug, and called her by a new name, one that she would adopt permanently. Deana.

“Do you believe in God?”

She can see Cas frown from out of the corner of her eye. “Yes,” he answers, his voice thick with confusion. “Do you?”

“I…think He exists,” Deana murmurs after a moment of thought, narrowing her eyes. “But I don’t believe in Him. He fucked up majorly when He made me.”

A pause. “I’m sorry Deana, I don’t follow,” Cas mutters, eyebrows furrowed.

She turns to face him again. She sends a prayer to that dumb ass of a God who didn't make her properly. “So, when God made me, or did His part in making me, I suppose… Anyways, God put me in the wrong body.”

Cas is staring at her like she’s speaking Latin. Though, he might know Latin. Dude’s smart.

She takes a deep breath. “Basically,” she says, mustering the courage. “Basically, I was born in the wrong body. My body is a man’s body.” She shudders out a breath, closing her eyes. She doesn't want to see the disgust or contempt that might be in Cas’ eyes. “I’m a woman. Someone just didn't get the memo,” she laughs nervously, high-pitched and without mirth.

Minutes go by. It feels like hours. Cas clears his throat. When she opens her eyes, his face is unreadable. “Have…Is your body still…” he nods his head to the side.

She nods, feeling old pain tear open old wounds. “I’m on estrogen injections,” she whispers. Thank God for Bobby. “And testosterone blockers.” She swallows down her shame, thick and suffocating in her throat. “They haven’t really changed anything…dramatically.”

It’s true; no matter how much she doesn't want it to be, as much as she tries to ignore it. She’s a woman, but her body is still pretty much all male. Sure, she doesn't have as much body or facial hair - but she still has to wax, shave, pluck and generally overcompensate. Her body is too thin, too straight and narrow. Her hips don’t have enough curve to them, and she avoids looking at her chest the few times she takes off her specially padded bras.

It’s hard to read Cas; he doesn't look like he’s about to declare her a sinner and shunt her out the door, but he doesn't look very happy either. Then again, Cas isn't exactly a very ‘smiley’ person. After a moment of silence, he nods, like he’s decided something.

“Sit up, Deana,” he murmurs. “Please.”

She does, struggling to push herself up while keeping her bra situated. She smiles awkwardly at Cas, who doesn't smile back. He reaches for her hands instead, tugging the one in front of her chest down to their laps. She squirms, feeling the bra sag off her body, completely ruining the illusion it’s supposed to create. Cas squeezes her hands gently.

“Can you take off your shirt, Deana?” Cas asks.

Deana feels like crying again. “Why?” she whispers, face screwed up in confusion, humiliation and indignation. If Cas just wants to make fun of her before he kicks her ass out the door, he can fuck off.

Cas frowns back at her, like he can read her mind. “I would never mock you, Deana,” he promises, sounding vaguely offended at the thought. “Just, please?” he asks again, hands moving from hers to linger at the hem of her shirt. “Please. Trust me.”

Deana swallows hard. ‘Trust me’. How can she not trust Cas? It seems inconceivable to her. Already she trusts that Cas will not share her darkest secret. So she nods, shivering with anxiety, and raises her arms so that Cas can tug her shirt up and over her head.

She folds her arms across her chest automatically, wishing that her bra was connected. It’s so god damn obvious now that soft slope of her chest under her t-shirts was a hundred percent false. With the bra unfastened, the cups hang awkwardly off of her too flat chest.

Cas takes hold of her arms and softly tugs them back down. His fingers wrap around each lose bra strap, one eyebrow raised as if silently asking for permission.

Deana’s eyes are far too watery, and she shakes her head rapidly. “Please, Cas,” she begs, her hands shaking and sweaty in her lap. “I don’t…It’s not right.”

Cas’ arms wrap around her waist, tugging her closer until her head is resting on Cas’ shoulders. She snuffles pathetically, and one of his hands comb through her hair. “Just trust me, Deana,” he reminds gently, and she squeezes her eyes tight as the bra straps slip down her arms. Cas pulls it off completely and sets it somewhere on the bed. His hands return to her waist, and slide up her sides until his palms are brushing the slightly swollen flesh of her chest. That’s the estrogen’s doing - the slight increase in breast tissue and the darkening and swelling of her nipples. They look more like ‘moobs’ than anything else, and she tenses as Cas’ hands linger. This is mortifying.

Cas kisses the top of her head, his fingers tracing soft, reassuring circles on her sides. “Can you sit up?” he asks, and it’s a genuine question. She doesn't want to, but she can, so she does. She keeps her eyes closed though, not wanting to see the look of Cas’ face when he sees for the first time the pathetic things she wants to call boobs but can’t.

Deana shudders when Cas’ hands move to cover her chest, thumbs gently rubbing patterns into the flesh. And she shudders again - a different kind of shudder - when Cas’ fingers move to brush back and forth over her nipples.

“You know,” Cas says casually, like he’s talking about the weather. “Despite the popular opinion that C-cup and D-cup breasts are the only acceptable sizes, a lot of women have smaller breasts that still function perfectly.”

Deana opens her eyes slowly, only to see Cas staring at her chest as he continues to massage and explore her chest. She feels like her face is being set on fire from how quickly she blushes. Cas glances up and grins, hands sliding around her back to tug her onto his lap. Her chest is pressed up against Cas now, but he can’t see it, at the very least. She hides her face in his neck.

“Smaller breasts are still breasts,” Cas murmurs softly, his perpetually messy hair tickling Deana’s ear. “It doesn't’t make them any less feminine, or any less beautiful…Or any less arousing,” he adds at the end, practically growling, his hands slipping down to clasp around her hips. And the odd thing is that for the first thing, they don’t feel too straight or not curvy enough underneath Cas’ fingers.

“Cas,” she whispers, and it’s prayer.

Her jaw is kissed. “Thank you for telling me, Deana,” Cas murmurs, hot air puffing against her neck. “But don’t you dare think for one second that this changes the fact that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

Her arms wrap around Cas’ back. “Cas,” she whispers, crying, and it’s salvation.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated.
> 
> If you want to follow me on tumblr: happy-haptic-lacuna.tumblr.com


End file.
